


When the Wind Draws Strong

by Vampiric_Charms



Series: Burns Most of All [14]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 01:32:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6779812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampiric_Charms/pseuds/Vampiric_Charms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strange moods, unexpected confessions, close quarters with repossessed treasures.  What could possibly go wrong in this scenario?  Perhaps Mairon should be used to these surprises by now, but he really, <i>truly</i>, is not.  Set before Mairon's fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Wind Draws Strong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samwisespotatoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwisespotatoes/gifts).



> This was a request for samwisespotatoes, though mentioning the request she made would possibly spoil the story? Regardless, I do apologize for taking so long to get this one finished. Set before Mairon's fall and definitely during the course of his...erm, seduction. Yes.
> 
> As always, still taking requests!
> 
> Enjoy!

“This is a wholly unusual craft for you,” Melkor mused, coming into Mairon’s chambers and closing the door by leaning his weight back against it. The latch pressed softly, giving way to his presence.

Mairon looked over his shoulder, away from his desk and the pieces of wood and metal spread there. He smiled indulgently, somewhat pleased with the unannounced company even if he did not say so aloud, and pushed some of his hair away from his face where it had loosed itself from his braid. “I suppose so,” he agreed, turning again to survey the materials.

The largest piece was an elegantly carved soundboard, laid gently within arm’s reach and glinting with fresh polish, though an equally elegant neck and column were nearby, waiting for full assembly to the rest of the instrument. Golden strings coiled neatly with a small pile of pins and levers, as well as several wooden dowels. Not a difficult task, all told, though one not within his immediate purview of craftsmanship. 

“Why, might I ask,” Melkor began, coming more fully into the center of the room, “are you constructing a harp? And a small one, at that. Look at it, it is absolutely _tiny_.”

“The sound was not right,” was all Mairon said in response, running his hand over the smooth soundboard and appreciating the fine grain of pale willow. ‘Tiny’ was a comparative term and one he did not make any comment on, especially since he knew Melkor was attempting already to get a rise of anger from him. “It was a gift, if you must know. I did not carve the body of it myself, only provided the strings and other little metal bits.” Melkor frowned at him, the actual question still apparently unanswered, and Mairon sighed, relenting. “I took it apart.”

“Yes, _obviously_. What is unhinged in that ridiculous head of yours to convince you to do such a thing?”

“I told you,” Mairon said with a small snap to his words. “The sound was incorrect.”

Melkor’s eyes slid to his face with the defensive tone, but Mairon refused to show any remorse for the possible overstep. Not once in the passing time they had spent together had Melkor reprimanded him for speaking out of turn, or attempted to remind him of his place as a Maiar in the presence of a Valar. It was a very odd relation, growing so swiftly between them and in so many directions, but it was one Mairon had come to respect. Respect and, if he were honest, to cherish quite dearly, as he would a precious gem cut to such perfection. There was something genuine about this, all of it, that he felt he was unable to place and also fully unable to give up. 

“You could have returned it to the original maker,” Melkor said, returning Mairon’s thoughts to the original subject. 

This time he did flush, very slightly across his cheekbones and into the tips of his ears, as a swell of frustration bit through his chest with a flash of memory. “I already tried that approach,” he admitted, looking away and back to the instrument spread in pieces before him. “She did not believe something was amiss in her work and so would not attempt to correct a problem not there.”

Melkor did not respond. Instead, he came toward the desk where Mairon was still sitting to look down at the pieces. His expression was calm, and yet still rather indiscernible as he took in the instrument broken apart across the desktop. Mairon watched him, somewhat nonplussed by his lack of interest when he was usually keen to become overinvolved to the point of annoyance. There was something reserved in his posture now, displeased and unhappy, that had not been visible at any point before, and Mairon suddenly grew concerned for his well-being in that moment. 

“Have _you_ detected the problem, then, since you decided to tackle it yourself?” Melkor finally asked, raising his eyes to meet Mairon’s for only a heartbeat before drifting them off elsewhere in the room.

Mairon paused for a moment, taking in his odd mood and weighing his answer carefully. Honesty, he decided, was likely more gainful than an evasive route. “There is a fault on the inside of the soundboard,” he explained softly. “A warping of the wood that is distorting the vibrations of sound. But I do not have the tools - nor, frankly, the skill set - to fix it myself. I was about to restore the harp as it was previously and put it aside until one of the carpenters could mend it.”

“Show me.”

His voice was so quiet that Mairon looked around at him, wondering if the request was genuine. But Melkor gazed back steadily, blue eyes intense with unplaced emotion. Mairon stood and reached for the soundboard, turning it over to reveal the oval opening along the back. “Just here,” he murmured, pointing to the hollowed inside and a small fissure opening along the far side. 

Melkor stepped close, enough that the heat of his body hit upon Mairon’s back as he extended his hand to trace just above Mairon’s, their fingers nearly touching. “How was this missed?” he wondered.

There was nowhere for Mairon to go, caught between the chair, his desk, and now Melkor’s large frame as he towered so very _close_ , and so he just glanced slightly over his shoulder for lack of any other gesture to make. He was surprised to see the Vala’s eyebrows pulled together in vexation, an almost angry glare in his eyes now he had never seen before. It had been in his mind to defend the Maia who crafted this instrument, to wonder if it may have been a fault in the wood after the creation had been finished for some time, but instead - and before he could check the words on his tongue - he blurted, “Are you well?”

Melkor looked at him sharply, the inquiry hanging between them, and Mairon wished very much in that moment that he was not caught as he was. He felt the muscles his arms tense, the hand against the harp freezing where it was still touching Melkor’s, and he knew his companion felt this as well. But Melkor’s ire faded as their gazes met, and the tension in Mairon’s body, sprung so quickly, relaxed again as it did. 

He did not lower his eyes away, and he did not try to move, quite willing to let this - this whole odd situation work itself out how it would. Never before had he seen Melkor appear quite so…

_Vulnerable._

The realization was a strong one, and he turned the word over quickly in his thoughts. But what had - 

“Music,” Melkor whispered, so near that the single word brushed against Mairon’s cheek as it was released with his breath. This was an explanation he never expected to receive, and Mairon stared at him in surprise as he continued. Melkor looked away, his eyes cutting across Mairon’s face and back to the harp, where their hands were still resting. “I have not heard music - real _music_ \- since I was welcomed in this home, with my kin. They did not appreciate what I had to contribute to their songs and tunes, though that does not mean I did not enjoy them while I was here.”

He had spoken so plainly, though there was still so much riddle under the simple words. Mairon blinked at him, absorbing what he had heard and thinking rapidly for an appropriate response to such candor. 

“Are you able to fix this fault?” he asked.

Melkor nodded, not thrown by the apparent change in conversation. “Yes, I can realign the wood. It is not difficult, so long as the piece is not too delicate.” He paused, glancing at Mairon again and cracking a grin. “I may have ruined a few of these in my time, but not for my _own_ misdeeds. The work was poor to begin with. This one here, it will simply be put to the test of my exemplary strength.”

“Yes,” Mairon agreed, easily returning the smile as he removed his hand from the soundbox and gestured downward. “I will not be devastated at its loss, should you fail.”

“I will not _fail_ ,” Melkor grumbled, shifting forward around him. Their hips bumped as he tried to push Mairon out of the way, and the Maia quickly stepped back to give him more space at the front by the desktop with full access to what he was aiming for. “Such insolence, truly, from that despicable mouth of yours.” 

Mairon did not go far, pausing close to Melkor’s back to peer down curiously as the Vala touched the small tear through the grains of wood. It appeared to take no effort at all before the fissure sealed itself, the scent of magic so subtle and yet so very pungent around them. The wood itself was unchanged save for the repair, and Mairon eagerly slid back around him to observe the work. The willow was warm and still felt pliant under his touch as Melkor drew away, but it was cooling quickly as the energy of the magic fell away. Aulë so rarely used his own energy in such ways, only ever pouring it into metals and smithing. To see it used freely and with such gentle strength was awe-inspiring.

But this, watching Melkor show off his magic for sport or fun, was not the end goal Mairon had in mind just then. He quickly set about resetting the neck against the soundboard with the column, securing them with the proper dowels. He could feel Melkor’s eyes on his face, running down his neck and back, as he reached for the shining levers and their little screws, starting to thread them into place with strings.

Suddenly Melkor was close beside him again, grasping one of the thin metal strings and holding it up to inspect. “I thought these were typically made from the innards of some miserable creature.”

Mairon took the string from him to thread through the proper lever along the neck. “They are,” he replied. “But I’ve always found strings made from gut to make a muted sound, wouldn’t you agree? I prefer wire strings.”

“They are louder, certainly,” Melkor said with a nod, and Mairon grinned at him. “Louder, and the tone stays in the air longer. You are correct, I do agree with your preference. Are you going to play something for me?” he asked after a moment, a sly glint coming into his eyes.

“No,” Mairon said, focused on the task of pulling the several threaded strings taut. He plucked two of them, listening to the tone and making another adjustment. “I personally dislike playing music for an audience, and am not at all sure why this was gifted to me in the first place when I already have a harp without much use. No, I am doing this for you, if you would like it, to take the music with you. Though, of course,” he added after giving one of the strings a firm tug, “I will play something _with_ you, if you desire it. Performing on command and creating something beautiful together are two very different things, after all.”

Before Mairon realized what was happening, Melkor reached out to grab his chin, gripping so tightly his fingers curled up to dig into his cheek. He dragged his face around abruptly and, for one thudding moment, Mairon expected to be met with anger for an audacious gift, and he nearly pulled away. Instead, quite apart from anything lingering in his mind, Melkor swiftly descended until their lips crashed together. 

The contact was like a storm, breaking across his skin and vibrating through him, and his eyes rolled toward the ceiling in surprise, fluttering with the intensity of the sensation. Melkor’s other hand reached to muss through his hair, disturbing the braid to cup against the back of his skull and holding him closer, keeping him still. Mairon grasped at the wrist nearest his chin, Melkor’s fingers continuing to grip there firmly - not with fear or out of an attempt to push back, but instead searching for a point to ground against through the surging thunder of his pulse. 

All at once, as quickly as it started, Melkor released his hold and stepped back, enough that Mairon felt dizzy with his loss. He started to raise his fingers toward his lips, wondering if that - whatever that had _been_ \- had even happened, stopping halfway and looking around to where Melkor had paced restlessly away. He was still so close, close enough to reach out and touch, if Mairon dared. He did not.

“What -?”

“You dropped the strings for your precious harp,” Melkor murmured casually, eyes flitting toward the floor.

Mairon looked down toward his boots and, sure enough, several golden strings were littered there across the stone floor like scrap, having slipped from his fingers from the shock of the encounter. He left them there, narrowing his eyebrows as he met the Vala’s ruthless stare. “What _was_ that?” he asked, this time bringing fingers to his cheek and feeling the flesh there, tender from the harsh touch just moments before. He was going to bruise. 

He suddenly did not care.

“A fleeting of fancy,” Melkor replied easily with a wolfish grin, a slip of white teeth flashing from between his lips. 

There was something in his tone - in his actions and gestures as he spoke - that told more than those simple words, and Mairon pursed his lips for a moment before letting the question go without further challenge. It was the hinting taste of unfathomable grace, of being unbearably thankful for something so rarely given, and he knew Melkor would balk if called on such things.

“Very well,” he muttered, turning back around and leaning down to grab the strings off the floor to continue working on the instrument. “Would you like this harp or wouldn’t you? It will not take much longer to refurnish.”

“Were you speaking the truth, before?” Melkor murmured, and Mairon could feel him at his back once more, his energy heavy and pulsing against him. He did not look, though it took a great deal of effort not to. The memory of lips burning against his own was still white-hot in his mind, and he blinked to clear it away, flustered. 

“Will you play something with me, as you said?”

“Of course I will.”

Mairon risked a quick glance over his shoulder and was taken aback by the expression of pure exultation he found there, seen only because Melkor assumed he was unobserved in that moment. “Nothing would make me happier,” he said softly, looking away again with his own widening smile, “than gifting you with music.” 

“Yes,” Melkor finally replied to a question already asked, putting his hand on Mairon’s shoulder as he leaned close to watch the rest of the strings come into place. “I would like the harp. Very much, indeed.”


End file.
